


London

by punkypeggy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Comedy, Gen, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock's bathroom habits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-10
Updated: 2014-04-10
Packaged: 2018-01-18 22:02:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1444447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punkypeggy/pseuds/punkypeggy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>London is slowly waking up, the sunlight timid and vague even though it’s the middle of the summer. A few birds sing. It’s 6 AM. Sherlock Holmes is still asleep… No, not quite.</p>
            </blockquote>





	London

  
London is slowly waking up, the sunlight timid and vague even though it’s the middle of the summer. A few birds sing. It’s 6 AM. Sherlock Holmes has never gone to bed. He’s been collecting cat fur for the latest two months and he’s sitting on the bathroom floor, sorting the samples by race and colour, in alphabetic order. One can argue about the obsessive compulsive behaviour than this mere fact may imply, but he could spend an hour explaining exactly why this is relevant for his detection work. And oddly enough, he would be right.

  
  
London is slowly waking up, and nobody is complaining about Sherlock’s bathroom habits. It’s for the best, as such complaints tended to slow down the process, but deep down, he misses it. He’s found himself talking to the skull more often. The skull, however, doesn’t talk back. He needs the chat, the back and forth; that is what makes him reach the right conclusions: pushing himself, disproving the other loudly and clearly.

  
In a way, showing off saves lives.

  
  
London is slowly waking up, but crime never sleeps.

  
  
His phone rings one, two, three times. He never picks it up. He’s told everyone he doesn’t like being called, that he prefers to text. The phone is literally on the opposite end of the room, completely out of reach. Getting up to answer it is an impossible task for a man who is too busy alphabetising cat fur in the bathroom at 6 AM. So he ignores it the next five times it rings.

  
An hour later, a very confused Mrs Hudson in a night gown and curlers knocks on his door.

  
  
"Sherlock, dear. It’s the _detective_ , he’s downstairs, he says he’s been calling you and you weren’t picking up, and that you sh—"

  
  
"Shut up."

  
  
"But Sherlock…!"

  
  
"Can’t you see I’m busy? Tell him to leave."

  
  
"I am not your personal assistant dear, just this once…"

  
  
"Yes, yes, leave already."

  
  
Exactly five minutes later, Lestrade is dragging him downstairs. Luckily, Sherlock is dressed.

  
  
***

  
  
"Been driving everyone insane, as always, I see? Some things never change, do they?"

  
  
Sherlock looks up to John, half inside the shallow grave that contained a woman on her twenties just an hour ago. He cannot help but to smile, just a little bit.

  
  
"Apparently so. They have a very low tolerance."

  
  
Lestrade’s hands turn into a fist, out of sheer frustration.


End file.
